


Noradrenaline

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Character Death, Chorus Arc, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Swearing, other characters not mentioned in tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 18:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14025966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: It’s like the jitters, but it’s been days since Grif’s tasted coffee.Eyes wide, he doesn’t remember the last time he blinked, though he knows he must have at some point. Blood pumping furiously through his veins, roaring in his ears. Grif thinks his heart might explode. If a bullet doesn’t get to him first.





	Noradrenaline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [creatrixanimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/gifts).



> For the RvB Angst War.

It’s like the jitters, but it’s been days since Grif’s tasted coffee.

Eyes wide, doesn’t remember the last time he blinked, though he knows he must have at some point. Blood pumping furiously through his veins, roaring in his ears. Grif thinks his heart might explode. If a bullet doesn’t get to him first.

Everything is so vibrant, yet somehow out of focus, and Grif hopes he’s hitting the enemy when he fires. He’s aware of Simmons beside him and Donut behind him, but everyone else has melted into the swarm of enemy soldiers—Covvies? Mercs? Who are they fighting again?—and Grif does his best to shoot at the gray-colored shapes.

Bullets, flashes, bangs and screams.

The tune they’ve all been marching to for years, but it’s been raised to ear-shattering volume and it’s quickened its tempo to lightning speed. Grif keeps time, just barely, switching from the percussion of bullets to the metallic ring of the blade on his blade when he finally runs out of ammunition.

He’s thankful for the cacophony of bullets and explosions that block out the sound of the Grifshot’s blade thudding into enemy soldiers as he rushes him. Can’t stand around, waiting to get shot, when he doesn’t have firepower of his own. Someone nearby is screaming, but it isn’t until his throat starts to hurt that he realizes it’s him.

One of the mercs—weren’t they supposed to be fighting aliens—slams into him. Using the butt of their gun they jerk upwards, smacking Grif with enough force to send his helmet flying. Dropping to a squat, he swings out with the Grifshot, arms stopping short as it catches the merc in the legs. Grif isn’t sure if it’s the same merc who knocked his helmet off, but it doesn’t matter. Whoever it was falls and Grif can move on.

Grif feels the sharp hisses of air as bullets whiz past his head, but soon this too becomes background noise as he tries his best to stay low, slicing out and up as he passes each merc. Grif works his way toward where he thinks—hopes—he lost track of Simmons, but he’s cut off by the barrels of three rifles in his face.

Letting out a yell, he hits the floor and rolls to the left. As he tries to get his footing, a flash of violet enters his line of sight, cackling and swinging what appears to be a grenade launcher at the three mercs. Grif barely registers this is Doc before he’s under fire again, and he’s back in the fray.

Grif thinks he finally understands the claim that time is arbitrary as he becomes lost in it. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, how long he’ll be here. Was it yesterday Tucker blew Felix of the tower or twenty minutes ago? As Grif takes down two more mercs, he decides it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.

Suddenly, a flash of maroon catches the corner of his eye, and Grif whirls around in time to see Simmons get rushed by a group of mercs and disappear behind the writhing, gray mass.

There isn’t even a nanosecond of hesitation as Grif’s feet, almost of their own volition, propel him in Simmons’s direction.

Hefting the Grifshot above his head, Grif howls as he swings down on the first merc surrounding Simmons. There’s a thud and the merc goes down, and, yanking the Grifshot up, Grif swings out and catches two more mercs. They press back at him, one firing, one smacking into his shoulder with the butt of their gun, but Grif is stronger. Bigger.

He throws himself at them, taking one down almost instantly. The other gets around him, throws his arms around Grif’s neck, but Grif uses the merc’s weight and falls back on him. Before Grif can stand, a third merc appears above him, takes aim at Grif’s head. Moving his head to look away, Grif jams his eyes shut, waiting.

 _Bang_!

Grif waits for darkness, but when it doesn’t come, he opens his eyes to find Simmons in place of the merc, now dead off to Grif’s left. Simmons holds his hand out, and Grif grabs it, letting the maroon soldier pull him to his feet.

“About time!” Simmons shouts.

“Hey, I’m using a fucking _gun knife_ , give me a break!” Grif retorts.

“Where’s your helmet?” Simmons asks.

Before Grif can answer there’s an explosion off to the right—red and yellow and hot. Smoke billows up to the ceiling, seeps into the fray, and soon Grif can’t make anything out that isn’t three feet away. He grabs onto Simmons’s arm, coughing as the smoke from the grenade fills his lungs.

“Come on, nerd, we gotta move!”

Simmons nods, and moves to follow, cries out, and drops to his knees.

“Simmons!”

Something scrapes past Grif shoulder, and then something else rams into his stomach, and  the air _whooshes_ out of him like he’s been punched, but he manages to stay upright as he drags Simmons out from the line of fire.

Crawling over the mess of mangled gray armor of fallen mercs, Grif tugs Simmons along. Grif calls down to him, but Simmons doesn’t answer, his head lolling around on his neck. Dropping the Grifshot, Grif grabs Simmons, puts one arm around his waist. With the other, he wraps Simmons’s arm around his shoulder and half-carries, half-drags Simmons the rest of the way to the exit.

Gasping as they burst into the smoke-free corridor, Grif comes face to face with a single merc, who jerks back in surprise when Grif appears and fumbles trying raise his gun.

“Nope, not today!” Grif yells, kicking the merc in the stomach.

“ _Oof_!” They fall backwards onto their ass, gun clattering to the floor.

Heart racing, Grif kneels, straining to keep hold of Simmons, and grabs the gun. He pulls the trigger, and as the merc goes limp, several more emerge from the smoking doorway.

Moving down the hall, Grif continues to fire at the mercs, luring them away from the others, doing his best to shield Simmons from the bullets. The last one falls as Grif rounds the corner, and he drops his gun to adjust his grip on Simmons.

Peering around the corner, Grif casts one more glance down the corridor to make sure no more mercs have followed them through the smoke. Then, satisfied they’ve been forgotten, Grif searches for a place to hide Simmons.

 

Grif lowers Simmons to the floor, the two of them sheltered from view by metal crates and machinery Grif doesn’t recognize. Alternating flashes of red and blue light staining the surroundings, bleeding them of any other colors. The lights blink in time to the alarm that blasts from the intercom, and the only sound they can hear over the shrieks is a repeated announcement of danger.

“ _Warning. Warning. Intruders. Warning. Warning. Intruders,”_ it drones, though Grif isn’t sure how many mercs are left to answer the call.

He has every intention of returning to help the others, even takes a few steps, already planning to grab one of the guns from the mercs he killed. But his legs wobble and he trips, catching himself on one of the stacks of metal crates. Once his breathing is a bit steadier, he tries to stand up straight, only to double over in pain.

Grif lowers himself to the ground, unable to take another step.

_Well, fuck._

Scooting himself back against the wall next to Simmons, Grif lets his head fall back against the cool metal and lets out a sigh. The sigh becomes a cough, and Grif reaches up to cover his mouth with the back of his hand. When he pulls it away, it’s covered in blood, changing from red to blue to red with the emergency lights.

“Fuck,” he groans. Or he thinks he does. Grif can’t even hear his own voice.

He looks over at Simmons, unconscious, head drooped down to rest on his chest plate. Reaching over with his clean hand, Grif grabs Simmons by the shoulder and shakes him.

Simmons doesn’t respond. Why would he? If the fucking noise isn’t enough to rouse him, why would touching him be any different?

As if fate is smiling down upon him, the lights freeze on red, and the alarm croaks and dies, along with the voice.

Epsilon? Or maybe the others made it to the control room. Or maybe they didn’t.

Ears ringing, Grif closes his eyes and tries not to think about that. He feels himself start to drift off. Then he remembers what happened last time he fell asleep during a battle, and his eyes fly open.

“No,” he croaks. Grif reaches over once more and tries waking Simmons. “Hey, wake the fuck up, ass hole!”

A dull throb has started at the back of his head, and when he moves to get closer to Simmons a sharp pain slices up from his hip to his rib cage. Looking down, he sees the gash in his armor, and he thinks that’s blood, but everything’s covered in red light it’s so hard to tell.

Grif touches his hand to the dark liquid pooling in the tear in his armor and pulls it away with a hiss as he’s met with more stabbing pain. Fuck, that’s definitely blood, and as he sits there, inspecting the wound, more and more feeling begins to return to his body, and with it, pain. And rather than coming into focus after the threat of danger has decreased, Grif’s vision blurs.

 “Grif?”

“Simmons!” The world spins a little as he turns to face Simmons. “All right?”

Simmons lets out a hoarse laugh and tilts his helmet to look up at the ceiling.

“No,” he says, “No, I don’t think so.”

Grif struggles for a response as Simmons reaches up and pulls his helmet off. The entire left side of Simmons’s face is covered in blood, and on the right side his mechanical eye pops, little sparks darting up and down the metal plating as the eye goes dark. Blood leaks from the corner of Simmons’s mouth, sliding down his cheek and to his chin.

Not wanting to freak Simmons out, Grif relaxes his face as he watches Simmons swing his head to look at Grif.

“Wow, you look like shit,” he says.

“You know what, Simmons, you don’t look to hot yourself,” Grif snaps.

“Were you always this blurry?” Simmons asks, and Grif, also wishing Simmons were a bit clearer, narrows his eyes.

“Your glasses are gone,” he says. “And your other eye burnt out, or something.”

“No shit,” Simmons says, “Didn’t notice I was half-blind or anything.”

“Then why the fuck did you ask, Simmons?”

“Because you’re being a blurry idiot right now, that’s why,” Simmons retorts.

“A bl—Simmons that doesn’t even make sense!” Grif snaps, then doubling over in pain as the wound on his side—or is it the one in his gut or is it—protests.

Simmons doesn’t say anything, just grabs onto Grif’s hand, squeezing it tight. Grif opens his mouth to warn Simmons about the blood all over his hands, but it comes out as a cough. Then he remembers Simmons is covered in blood, so probably doesn’t care anyway.

“Well—this—this sucks,” Grif wheezes.

“Stop talking, dumbass,” Simmons says, inching closer to Grif. He slides his hand off Grif’s, but Grif doesn’t have the energy to snatch it back.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Simmons,” he sighs.

Simmons snorts, and they both lapse into silence, staring out at the metal crates blocking the corridor. They do their best to remain as still as possible to avoid making their wounds worse, even though Grif is pretty sure sitting still isn’t much better.

The sound of gunshots come from somewhere in the distance, and Grif feels a surge of hope at the thought of the others holding their ground. There’s a yell and an explosion, and then nothing. What feels like an eternity passes, and the gunfire starts up again.

Deflating as the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding _whooshes_ out of him, turns to look at Simmons. Simmons is crying, relief plastered over the pain. Slowly, Grif moves his hand and laces his fingers through Simmons’s. Simmons’s grip tightens, and Simmons looks over once more at Grif, corners of his mouth twitching up into a shaky smile.

“You’re right,” Simmons says. “This does suck.”

Grif flashes Simmons a grin, and nods. Wishes he could say _I told you so_ because, well. He _did_ tell him so. Words keep bubbling up to his lips, only to fizzle out as the walls get a little darker, as Simmons’s face becomes a little fuzzier.

Soon it’s too much work to hold his head upright, and Grif leans over to rest it on Simmons’s shoulder. He’s always loved being shorter than Simmons. So comfy. Of course, pressing his face into power armor wouldn’t normally be comfortable, but Grif hardly notices, relieved to relax his neck. Simmons rests his cheek on Grif’s head, then, soft and warm. Grif hadn’t realized how cold he was.

His fingers loosen a little as his strength evaporates, and he feels Simmons do the same.

“You know,” Grif says, pausing for breath. “You know, I think I liked the fake war better.”

“Even though all we did was stand around and talk?” Simmons asks.

“ _Especially_ because all we did was stand around and talk.”

“Yeah,” Simmons sighs.

“Bullshit or not, though,” Grif says, “Would’ve gone anywhere with you.”

“Yeah,” Simmons repeats. “I mean—me too—but—with you.”

“I know,” Grif says.

“Are you trying to quote _Star Wars_?” Simmons asks. “Because that’s not how that goes, you know.”

“Tell me, Simmons,” Grif wheezes, “How exactly… does it go?”

“Well.” Simmons coughs. “Well, it starts with, uh, I love you.”

“I know,” Grif says.

“Ass hole.”

“Always,” Grif sighs, head sliding down further until it’s resting on Simmons’s chest.

His head moves up and down as Simmons breathes in and out, and he can hear Simmons’s heart whirring angrily beneath his armor. It sputters once, twice, then keeps going.

“Simmons?” Grif says.

“Yeah?” Simmons’s voice sounds so far away. Did he move?

Grif looks up—no, Simmons is still there. He opens his mouth to tell him, to say what he should’ve said fucking ages ago, but the words don’t come. Instead, he gives Simmons’s hand one last squeeze and kicks Simmons’s boot with his own.

 _I love you, nerd_.

Simmons, kicking him back, says,

“I know.”

\--------------------

Donut finds them first. Calls it in over the comms system, voice dull, lacking it's usual light. It’s met with the silence of radio static. After a few moments, there’s a gruff noise of affirmation, and Lopez and Sarge appear to help Donut move them off Charon’s ship and onto the transport Wash and Carolina arrived in.

“We found them together, trail of enemies led right to ‘em! Fought right ‘til the very end, like any admirable Red would do!” Sarge boasts to the Blues, voice maybe half an octave higher than usual, but everyone pretends not to notice.

What he doesn’t say is when they found them together, they were still holding hands.

 

While Wash, Caboose, and Grey fuss over Tucker, who just had an AI die in his head, the Reds tend to Grif and Simmons. Carolina flits between the two parties, making plans with Sarge and Donut, checking on Tucker’s status and making sure Wash is at least pretending to sleep.

It takes all of thirty seconds to decide they’ll be buried together, and only a few minutes to figure out where.

Carolina reaches out to Kai while Lopez preps one of Kimball’s ships for the journey to Earth.

 

\-------------------- 

The ceremony takes place in Kai and Grif’s backyard, snug but warm, salty air tickling Carolina’s nose.

And it’s about what you would expect, for a Red Team funeral.

Sarge gives a deafening eulogy, firing his shotgun into the air so many times he has to reload twice, much to Doc’s dismay.

Lopez sings one of his monotonous ballads, and even though no one understands the language—though Donut and Kai can pick out bits and pieces—they all understand the meaning.

Donut does some pyrotechnics, sending orange and maroon fireworks into the air while Tucker holds onto the collar of Caboose’s shirt to stop him from chasing the embers.

Kai does some interpretive dancing, trying to coax a very uncomfortable Wash into joining her, before dropping the first fistful of dirt in Grif and Simmons’s grave.

Carolina would say this was a party, if the circumstances weren’t so morose. However, as she continues to look on, watching the Reds laugh, cry, then laugh again, she realizes this is a party. A celebration. And she smiles.

She couldn’t imagine them buried on Chorus, or even Blood Gulch. It would be too quiet. Here, with Kai already showing Doc and Donut the hot new studios available in Honolulu, Lopez inspecting the gutted car parked in the street, and Sarge already laying traps around his cot in the garage, there’s no such thing as quiet.

That’s okay, though.

Grif and Simmons wouldn’t want it any other way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Creatrixanimi (@creatrixanimi on Tumblr): "Both Grif and Simmons get badly hurt during battle but don't realize the extent of their injuries until the adrenaline runs out. Bonus if we see the reactions of others."
> 
> Thank you so much for this prompt! I hope you enjoy what came of it, I had a great time writing it!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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